Bitten nails and white powder and eyes resembling

the bitter red of dawn from failed attempts at
getting a glance of heaven;

Words slip off easily from my
loosened tongue, like releasing restless birds
from an ark far too small to ever hold them;

In the crowd of locusts that murmur their deals with
the devil, a pair of hands stiffly
stroke at my soul and swear me a ticket to
Eden if I give him the chance;

Promises of promiscuous, daring,
unique – they flow like the holy water
that had caressed my head so gently eons ago; 

But oh, how coarse the ground is that
caresses my bleeding bare feet – for Delilah,
the sea has split, Samson is no more, and
God is but a façade

Nevertheless,

each seventh day, I sit upon worn
oak and stroke delicate verses bound
by foreign faith and blindly, 
seek vision.